


Your Color Schemes Delight

by nuitdemesreves (mesohorany)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Smut, literally no plot, seriously I'm on an oral kick right now help, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/nuitdemesreves
Summary: Elio is soaking wet and stunning by the side of the pool. Oliver can't stop aggressively lusting for him. There is no scenario in which this doesn't end in a quickie before dinner...and maybe after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, I keep sitting down to write a proper fix-it fic but I keep getting sidetracked by all the porn I want to write about these two, probably because I have insatiable lust for them both and I just like thinking about them together. 
> 
> Anyway, inspiration for this one came from, strangely enough, watching Marie Antoinette - there's this absolutely incredible song called [Kings of the Wild Frontier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hEn_rEDzp0) by Adam and the Ants, the lyrics of which I borrowed for my title, and it just made me think of the boys being sweaty and sexy and lazy by the pool. I couldn't get the image of Elio lying there dripping wet and half-asleep out of my head, so I figured, you know, Oliver probably couldn't stop thinking about that either at some point, sooooo here we are. Hope you enjoy reading about my shameless oral fixation as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I wrote this on about three hours of sleep so sorry if it's sloppy.

**Lying by the side of the pool with his snake-body limbs coiling and uncurling and long in the light of the sun’s daily suicide Elio is wet, wet, wet. Oliver is watching him with naked need in his gleaming eyes and teeth scraping against his fat bottom lip, broadcasting his mind. If Elio – fuck, if _anyone_ – looked at him now they would see. It’s there; it’s not going away. The Want.**

**Oliver capitalizes the word because he has never felt such a loud lust for anyone in his entire life than he has for this seventeen-year-old sylph of a kid, this _live_ little intellect. Elio fucking Perlman. The way he slides and whirls and laughs through life, a different language spilling from his perfect pink mouth every few sentences, the clarity of his eyes. The way he moans and gasps and lets his lips part like a cave when Oliver is inside of him. The ribbon curl of his fingers latching around Oliver’s wrists as he pins them back against the pillows, riding hard as though he were a seasoned equestrian and Oliver his champion thoroughbred. Even as he’s prone by the water Oliver can see the way Elio’s body will move for him that night, when every little dust particle in the Perlman house is still except the ones that swirl around their bed. **

**Through the enchanted air, Mrs. P.’s voice cracks: “Boys! Dinner!”**

**Half dozing, Elio groans, lets one skinny arm fall from where it’s been draped over his face. “Already?”**

**“Already,” rasps Oliver, and just the timbre of his voice makes Elio’s eyes saucer open because he knows that tone, _oh_ he knows that tone. It’s the same tenor that spills from Oliver’s mouth when he’s husking his own name on the brink of orgasm, when he’s finished sheathing his cock to the hilt in Elio’s quivering tightness. He rolls delicately to prop up on his side as he blinks in the honey tint of the fading day, finds Oliver perched on the opposite ledge framing the water, _staring_. _L’Americano_ still veils his face behind his sunglasses but if by now Elio could not recognize desire this strong he’d be positively senseless.  
**

**Leisurely he smiles, gives his tongue a deliberate roll around the pucker of his rouge mouth before falling into the water. He submerges fully before he breaks the surface, on Oliver’s side this time, grabbing the elder man’s knees for leverage.**

**“Hungry?” Innocently as he grins, a demon thing that influences his eyes.**

**Oliver gives this agonized _mmm_ , broken in his throat. “Starving.” It is clear he is not speaking of food.**

**Elio takes a quick survey of the area and finds it sufficiently lacking in other humans before he presses his mouth to the soft flesh of Oliver’s inner knee, one tongue flick before he is pushing out of the water, their faces so so close for one second of torture. “Come eat, then.”**

**Oliver is rock hard and he has to just sit for a second, watching Elio walk away as tall and thin and swaying as a willow tree, more than beautiful. He tucks himself and throws on a shirt so he can be presentable but when he reaches the dinner table just seconds behind Elio they are they only two present.**

**They look at each other.**

**“I need – ” begins Elio, and Oliver blurts, “ _yup_ ,” and then they are power-walking through the kitchen door like old ladies out for a morning cardio session. Inside, Mr. and Mrs. P. are still plating dinner with Mafalda, fresh Bolognese and wine by the looks of things, and Mrs. P. starts to say something but Elio cuts her off.**

**“I need to change,” he announces, “I’m _soaked_.”**

**He meets Oliver’s eyes.**

**Oliver swallows like he’s choking on it already.  
**

**“Me too,” he says, and without even pausing for a response they continue their long strides through the kitchen and up the stairs and through the open door of Elio’s makeshift room.**

**Elio is a hummingbird blur colliding with Oliver’s skin, his tongue asking a question for which Oliver’s mouth has every answer, the deepest of kisses as is his _modus operandi_. Oliver’s huge hands cup Elio’s perfect face, Adonis bone structure under butter-smooth skin, and Elio’s knee is rutting up between Oliver’s thighs to find out just what he’s dealing with. “Elio,” he hisses in delight, and Oliver moans.**

**“Do I have time to fuck you?”**

**Elio laughs out loud, licks the stark bronze length of Oliver’s collarbone, his hands invading everywhere.**

**“Tonight,” he murmurs, “tonight you can fuck me all you want. Wherever you want.” And in an instant he’s on his knees, wrestling with Oliver’s shorts, dragging them viciously to the ground. Nuzzling the insistent swell of Oliver’s cock he mouths it, tongues it, blows softly on the head, a little smile capering around his lips. “Right now you can fuck my mouth.” And he swallows every inch.  
**

**“God _damn_ it,” Oliver hisses, his vision punched out by darkness that matches the shade of Elio’s hair, roped through his fingers. Elio is the one on his knees but Oliver is nearly brought there, further staggered with every suck, every brush of the head of his pulsing cock against the wall of Elio’s throat. The younger man is a master of his craft and it is clear that he intends to make quick work of his task. Oliver is aware of nothing but hot pressure, the younger’s elegant hands curving around his ass, pulling, encouraging him to thrust. Of course he answers the call to, as Elio would so eloquently say, _fuck his mouth_ , and Elio can take it, swallowing against a rogue twitch of his gag reflex so Oliver can feel his throat contract. For that a shiver climbs the straight rungs of his spine, fervent, invasive.**

**Elio _mmm_ s around the length of him, sucks like Oliver’s cock is the thickest of malts and he’s only got a flimsy straw to help him drink it in. Oliver’s toes are clenched on the floor, both hands twisted in Elio’s hair, rocking forward with each of the younger’s gulps. He’s pooling into a button-down suntanned puddle, dissolving in the fervor of the younger’s mouth. Dazedly he thinks that ten minutes ago, worshipping every razor angle of Elio’s lithe luscious body in the languid heat, he could not have foreseen this outcome. He thinks about Elio’s cock, obviously ready to go shoving up against the thin cotton of his swim trunks, recalls the distinct salt taste of him losing control. The phantom flavor searing his tongue combined with one more zealous _suck_ is enough and this time it’s Oliver who is totally fucking losing control down the back of Elio’s throat. “ _Oliver, Oliver, Oliver_ ,” he choke-chants on a sob. Habitual now, to cry his own name in moments of ecstasy. **

**When the younger pops up, tonguing rogue drops of milky seed from a smile that manages to be concurrently sunny and iniquitous, Oliver holds his face like he loves to do and draws him in. Kisses his own taste from the inside of Elio’s mouth, one hand rubbing at the front of his shorts for the tiniest of repayments. A tease.**

**“ONCE AGAIN, BOYS!” Pro, bellowing from downstairs. “DINNEEEEEEEEEEER!”**

**His voice is teasing and stern and jolly at the same time; Elio and Oliver look at each other guiltily and laugh out loud for the disturbance. Mr. Perlman is an incredibly easygoing man but if he isn’t sitting down to dinner by at least seven thirty he becomes very Scrooge-like indeed. Activity, for the time being, will have to cease.**

**Their lips meet, gently, once more. Elio sighs out in frustration.**

**“ _Il mio bel regazzo,_ ” rasps Oliver, ragged on a heavy recovery breath, nudging his forehead hard across Elio’s. The younger’s skin is sweat and heat and Oliver can smell the musk of him on the settled summer air. “Tonight, tonight, you have no idea what I’ll do for you.”**

**And with that he darts away, into his room to (quite literally) jump into clean clothes. He doesn’t wait for Elio to sprint down the stairs because he knows if he looks in those aqueous variegated eyes even one more time they won’t be attending dinner at all.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver gives Elio what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh this took me so much longer than anticipated but I had a bit more in my head than a few paragraphs of smut here. Also I love making the boys suffer a bit before they get what's coming to them ;) Enjoy, my loves!

**When Elio emerges from his room he is fresh-faced and overbright in the eyes, burning. True to his ruse he has changed his outfit, a washed-out green shirt and those denim shorts that hug the bone elegance of his skinny hips. His blood is crooning and he can feel every throb of his heart through the pulse points at his throat; he is ready, his mind is on tonight, on the glaze of Oliver’s eyes as he promised. _You have no idea what I’ll do for you._**

**Elio has an idea.**

**Down the stairs, into the kitchen, pushing abstractly at the remainder of his hard-on before he emerges into the prying eye of socialization, he calls, “Mafaldaaaaaaa.”**

**“ _Si, piccino_.” Mafalda is still puttering, gathering salt and pepper and garnishes for the outside table. If there is one thing that is true about Mafalda it is that she can never sit still. “That’s why she’s so skinny,” Elio joked to Oliver when he asked about her. “She’s always moving.”**

**“ _C’e vino?_ ” **

**“ _Ci sono due bottiglie sul tavolo_ , there are two bottles on the table,” answers Mafalda, and Elio grins for that. While wine brings his already considerable sensuality surging to the surface, mild intoxication makes it easier for him to bear the abstinence he and Oliver must practice in the presence of others. The heightened physicality is worth it.  
**

**“Elli-belli, are you asking about wine?” Mr. Perlman inquires of his son as Elio slides into the yard with that slick shoulder shrug. Oliver, as usual, is enthralled: sometimes Elio is nothing but cautious, hiding his shining self behind “I guess,” and avoidance of eye contact, but within this setting he is shrouded by no veil. Here under the canopy of trees in the gentle summer twilight is where Oliver falls most in love with him.**

**“I am, I am,” answers Elio, casual. “It’s been a hard day, Dad.” One dark eyebrow arches as he smirks his sarcasm.**

**“Oh yes, your life is so difficult,” says Annella conversationally, smiling. “I know suntanning by the pool can be absolutely _wearing_. Would you like Chianti or Primitivo?”  
**

**“Ehhhh, Primitivo.” Elio folds himself into the chair beside Oliver, all limbs. He would be coltish if he weren’t so brimming with grace.**

**“Mmhmm. Oliver?”**

**For a second Oliver is at war with himself but he has just had a glorious orgasm and he has faith that he can master himself even under the veil of a wine haze. “I’ll do Chianti, please.”  
**

**“Good, I can try yours.” Elio looks at him and gives that memorable impious grin and Oliver knows that this is going to be an _evening_.**

**“If I let you.”**

**All three pairs of Perlman eyebrows rise in unison; Mr. P laughs and it is clear by his facial expression that he is delighted with Oliver’s pushback. “Our American is feisty tonight, no?”**

**Oliver raises his hands, grinning. “Hey, he started it.”  
**

**“As he often does. Ah.” Annella is inspecting the food, pleased with what she sees. “It’s just us tonight, yes? So shall we eat?”  
**

**They shall, and they do. As is customary after long sweltering days the boys find themselves starving, hunger masked all day by the dominating heat but brought on in full driving potency by the smells and visual cues of dinner. Under the table Elio keeps smacking his thigh against Oliver’s and resting his toes atop Oliver’s foot and Oliver can’t stop thinking about Elio’s body, the erotic arch of his hips by the pool and the slow track of sweat and precipitation over his skin. Mapping him like Oliver so loves to do with his tongue and the head of his cock. Before they know it they are two glasses of wine deep and night is in full force around them and without a conscious thought they have shifted so close to each other that not a centimeter of space remains. Sitting with his chiseled chin propped on thumb and forefinger, his alcohol-lidded eyes focused intently on the professor as he speaks, Oliver is beautiful, _beautiful_ and Elio is so attracted to him that he can barely take a breath. **

**Halfway through gelato he feels a hand on his thigh and freezes. His mother is looking at him but he has no earthly idea what she’s said.**

**Oliver answers for him. “I don’t think we are. I mean, I’m not planning on it. Is there anything up tonight, Elio?”**

**“Anything – up?” Elio is lost. “Like going on?”**

**“ _Piccino_ , you’ve had too much wine,” laughs Annella. “You’re not going out tonight?”**

**“Oh.” Elio knows his face is gaining color, faint cerise pink enriched to bloody crimson in less than a second. Oliver’s hand is making its slow ascent and he is starting to sweat from more than just the leftover heat. “No, I’m staying in. Suntanning _is_ tiring, no matter what you guys might think.” He smiles to offset the flush.**

**In concurrence, Oliver on a shrug says: “He’s not wrong.” Out of sight, out of mind, he squeezes his huge hand around Elio’s lithe thigh, thumb brushing curiously between his legs. Asking a question that’s answered the instant he feels pressure against his hand: yes, oh yes, Elio is ready for him. Again he squeezes, higher this time at the apex of the younger’s leg, immediately rewarded by a hiss that Elio disguises badly with a cough. Oliver can tell by the way he exhales that he wants to swear; to cover his moonbeam smile he gulps at the last of his wine.**

**There is no possible excuse in the world they could make to Mr. and Mrs. P. to seem anything less than shifty right now but Oliver is dying to feel every centimeter of Elio’s body under his own. The way his mouth falls open and his back curves and his hips automatically thrust to meet Oliver’s when he is in his arms, wanting, wanting, the most sensual lover Oliver has ever had. For a fleeting period of time he was fucked up about Elio’s age, making stern eye contact with himself in the mirror, chanting a pep talk: _you don’t like him he’s seventeen you don’t like him he’s SEVENTEEN_ but the maturity that Elio displays is unparalleled and Oliver has no leftover reservations. That maturity extends to the composure Elio is maintaining right now, speaking evenly with his parents about tomorrow’s plans to trek to Lake Como while Oliver’s palm pushes gently, relentlessly, on his blossoming erection.  
**

**“So maybe we get up early and go so we can stay all day and sleep on the beach?” Mr. Perlman is saying as Elio and Annella nod thoughtfully, contemplatively. “Oliver, will you come?”**

**Under the table Elio places his hand atop Oliver’s, ribbons their fingers together, pressing down to increase the friction on his cock. Oliver clears his throat.**

**“Wouldn’t miss it.”**

**“That’s settled then,” says Annella. “Elio, _mio porcellino_ , you look trainwrecked. Perhaps you should try to get some rest early tonight?”**

**“I was actually just thinking that,” says Elio, seriously. “I need to get a shower, I’m horrifying.”**

**“Well, if you are then I am too,” says Oliver, seizing his chance. “Race you for it.”**

**With a positively fear-inducing rattle of dishes and chairs he leaps from the table and makes a dash for the house; it takes Elio a mere second to catch up, the expression on his face transforming from surprise to mirthful indignation before he tears off in pursuit, tossing “goodnight” to his parents over one green-clad shoulder. As he runs, observing Oliver’s athletic prowess on full display in front of him, he marvels at the ease with which Oliver has just rescued them both. Not only have they been pardoned from having to hide their arousal from two very observant people, they have avoided fudging obvious excuses to leave the table. Success.**

**As Oliver crosses the threshold he whoops, not slowing for an instant, the muscles in his supple calves working as he pounds through the kitchen. Elio is laughing, gasping, following the searing trail that Oliver has left behind, signature aroma still crisp in the air. He hunts him up the stairs, across the hall and through his own bedroom door, where he lands a leaping tackle directly in the middle of Oliver’s back. Triumphantly he screams out, “fucking _got you_ ,” and Oliver releases that whoop again, letting Elio wrap himself vine-like around his torso, bearing his full weight with ease.  
**

**“That was brilliant.”**

**“Your mom set it up.” Oliver grins, rubs his hands along the length of Elio’s shins. “I just expanded on her idea.”  
**

**“Didn’t think we’d ever get away.”  
**

**“Me neither. Thought you were going to explode in my hand for a minute,” says Oliver, provocative.**

**“Fucking kill me doing that,” says Elio slowly, and suddenly Oliver’s full attention is centered upon the fact that Elio is hard enough to drill a hole into his back. He turns his head; the younger is there to nuzzle him, eyes closed, lips parted as he exhales heavily.  
**

**“Shower with me,” husks Oliver.**

**“Yes please,” whispers Elio, fast. His trademark consent.  
**

**Oliver growls and slams the door behind them and without pausing at all carries him straight into the bathroom. Around his middle Elio’s legs curve and writhe, his fingers threading through Oliver’s honey hair, his mouth on the back of the elder’s coppery freckled neck. When they’re securely locked into the bathroom he jumps down, already reaching to unbutton Oliver’s shorts; he has waited long enough to get his own.**

**“I love these shorts,” says Oliver in his fond voice, amusement coloring his eyes as he undoes Elio’s zipper. “You wore them that day you played piano for me. You were relentless.”**

**“Relentless?” repeats Elio, half smirking. “You think I was relentless? You lying there wearing almost nothing right in my line of sight, and _I’m_ relentless?”  
**

**“I remember how you walked past me on your way inside,” continues Oliver, bending down to kiss Elio’s forehead, a solitary black curl trapped under his lips. “These were falling off so you pulled them up and you just said ‘follow me’ so smoothly, like you were in control of the world. I’d have followed you to the bottom of the ocean.”  
**

**Elio shakes his head, laughing as he tugs Oliver’s shorts down over the ridges of his hipbones. “That’s macabre, Little Mermaid. And anyway you were in total control. I wanted to impress you.”**

**“I love it when you’re candid with me,” says Oliver in earnest. “I have always wanted to know what you’re thinking and you kept me in darkness for weeks.”**

**Elio says frankly, stroking his hands under Oliver’s shirt to touch the ridges and angles of his stomach, “Only because I was afraid.”**

**“I know that you were,” says Oliver. “I was too.”**

**Elio gives this little chuckle of disbelief, pausing pressed against Oliver’s front, raises his eyes. “I’m pretty scary, huh?”  
**

**Oliver boxes him playfully, tousles rough hands through his hair. “You know what I mean."  
**

**“Yeah,” says Elio, blowing out a breath. “I do.”**

**Oliver kisses him. Historically he has withdrawn, waiting instinctively to allow Elio to make the first move so as not to spook him, but right now he knows what they both need. Predictably Elio melts into his kiss, malleable in his arms, reaching to bury his hands in Oliver’s hair as his spine arches back hard in pleasure. When his tongue scurries out to play Oliver _mmm_ s thickly and lets his knee come up to split Elio’s thighs; this draws a sharp inhale from deep in the teenager’s chest and all of a sudden nothing is fast enough. Elio is scrambling to relieve Oliver of his shirt and Oliver is yanking at Elio’s collar and in seconds there is nothing between them but two diaphanous layers of cotton. They stare at each other, half-drunk, _discharging_ desire. **

**“Elio,” whispers Elio, confident now, sure of himself after days of practice.  
**

**“Oliver,” responds Oliver softly, cracking the knuckles of his left hand to dispel some tension. He bends down, deliberate, closes his wet mouth over the knife-edge of the younger’s collarbone. Noses under his armpit so he can breathe that most intimate of scents: sweat and pheromones and _Elio_. He moans out loud for it and when Elio reaches over to explore him he finds that Oliver’s cock is standing straight up.**

**Elio hisses and grinds out, automatic,**

**“I _want_ this.”**

**Oliver falls over himself trying to get the shower on; he thinks he will never succeed until suddenly there is hot water streaming around his head and shoulders. When he turns around Elio is naked and smirking and god-like before him, age in his eyes and youth in his faultless bird-thin body. Not for the first time Oliver finds himself thinking, _he can’t be real_.  
**

**“What?” And there is Elio’s creeping self-awareness, starkly diverging from the confidence painting his face; his tone drips innocence while his eyes exude authority and it is for the juxtaposition that Oliver goes mad.  
**

**“Get in,” he growls, and he’s ripping off his shorts and letting Elio pull him in _like he always fucking does_ except this time it’s by the hand, not the heart, and the water is hotter than the midday air but they’ve been letting their sweat dry clammy on their skin for hours and god it feels so good. Elio tosses his head and his shock of curls flips back and Oliver can already see how it will dry, tumbling around his head like a black cloud, cavalier. He can’t stop braiding his fingers through it and maybe he is rough but Elio is growling in appreciation so he knows not to stop; knows where the evening will go just from that little noise. He gathers a knot at the nape of Elio’s neck and keeps his head back so he can lick into his open mouth. Elio gives the most bone-deep of shudders and his hands go to Oliver’s hips, clutching, nails gaining traction in his skin. Teeth bared, eyes downcast falling on Oliver’s lower lip, feral-eyed. Against Oliver’s thigh he is hard, so hard, _painfully_ hard. **

**“What are you gonna do to me?” he asks, and his voice is strained, wrecked, almost timid.**

**Oliver smiles.**

**“Repay you,” he says, and he pushes Elio against the shower wall and sinks to his knees and swallows his twitching cock whole.**

**Reflexively Elio smacks his hand back against the wall, unseated, darkness undulating around the frames of his vision. He is never prepared to touch the back of Oliver’s throat with the tip of his arousal but it always happens _immediately_ upon entrance to that cavern mouth and without fail it makes him jelly-kneed. He curses out loud, inhaling hard through his nostrils, and Oliver swathes his elfin waist in those massive hands and jerks his hips forward so he understands that it is time to _thrust_.**

**So Elio with his fingers clawed around Oliver’s freckly shoulders fucks his mouth with abandon, knowing that his stamina is less than naught from the onslaught of sexual tension that’s been burgeoning ceaselessly since they abandoned their poolside station. Under the streaks of temperate water his breaths turn to choked-up sighs which turn to guttural moans from deep in his chest and just as the culminating wave of his pleasure starts to rise, swirling from the pit of his stomach outward, Oliver pops off his the soaked throbbing swell of his cock and kisses a path all the way back up his stomach to his mouth.**

**“Not yet,” he breathes, grinning as from Elio’s throat pours this gritty sound of absolute anguish, the most convincing protest that Oliver has ever heard. “But you will. Don’t give me that look, little one.”**

**“Little one?” Elio, his eyes tempestuous, grabs the base of Oliver’s cock and lets his thumb slick over the slit, where he can tell the difference between the clean wetness of the shower water and the thick slipperiness of pre-cum. His breath hisses in, whistling between his teeth. “ _Elio_.”**

**“O-li-ver,” Oliver chants back to him, rocking forward to bring their bodies flush; he is wild for this. “Can I – ”**

**Elio doesn’t care what he is about to give consent for, he will do everything and anything and he will do it with the biggest smile and ask for more. “ _Yes_ ,” he rushes out, so Oliver takes his face in his hands and gives him a positively deboning kiss before he seizes his delicate shoulders and whirls him around. His mouth nips and works at the sensitive intimate base of Elio’s neck, his fingers dancing around to ask entrance to the younger’s mouth, which is granted immediately. Elio knows what he wants and he sucks deep and wet and when Oliver withdraws his hand his fingers are drenched. He rubs them together, puts his lips against Elio’s ear.**

**“Where shall I put these?” Whispering.**

**Elio groans.**

**“Inside me,” he says, and he tries to make the word a command but it arrives into the air as more of a plea.  
**

**Oliver, however, fully interprets it as a decree. Elio feels his fingers rambling down, down the stairs of his spine and then he is being parted from the outside in with that trademark gentleness that Oliver has displayed from the beginning. Oliver is so concerned for Elio’s wellbeing that he is sometimes too moderate and Elio has to impel him: _harder, fuck me harder_. Tonight, though – tonight will be different. They have never had sex in any position where they cannot be face to face but now Oliver’s hands have a dominance, a haste that Elio has not yet experienced; a growl to his quick breath that speaks volumes to his mindset. Elio is electrified for it. When two fingers become three, stroking and quirking inside of him, his head twists and he squirms back and there is something in his polychromatic eyes when Oliver stares into them that makes his stomach rupture into bonfire flame.**

**He doesn’t have to ask; he has already been told. He withdraws his fingers as Elio gets his foot up on the soap ledge, squares his hips and nudges the head of his cock into Elio’s warmth and before he can even move the younger is sinking back onto him, enveloping the length of him as from his chest warbles the most sultry, the most decadent of moans.**

**“Jesus,” Oliver grates when he can formulate sentences again, all of his mind and body and spirit and blood focused on the heat circumscribing his arousal, “Jesus fucking Christ you’re so tight.”**

**“ _Lo so_ , I know,” smirks Elio, and he cants his hips as he wraps one impatient hand around himself, throbbing and weeping from all the unfulfilled play. “ _Sposta, Americano_.”**

**So Oliver moves. He should be sustained from the miraculous orgasm given to him earlier but he is not; he is destroyed by how Elio stirs for him, all sinuous hips and panting mouth as he rocks back with every thrust. He rests one arm on the shower ledge and with his free hand he reaches back to grab Oliver’s wrist and pull his hand to his mouth, bites his fingers, sucks them to keep from bawling as Oliver pounds him against the wall. He is filled to the brim and wanton for it and everything is Oliver’s hands, his mouth, his voice as he bites back groans and alternates curses in English and Latin and Italian.**

**Always, always, from the American’s tongue: “Oliver.”**

**And in immediate intimate response, “Elio, Elio, _Elio_.”**

**Eventually when Oliver is in his rhythm and precariously close to overflowing he reaches between Elio’s dainty legs and starts to stroke him, caressing the sensitivity of the head with each upward thrust into the younger’s sweetest of spots, and Elio can’t be quiet now. “ _Mio dio_ ,” he sobs out, and he is _quivering_. “You’re going to fucking kill me.” **

**“Come for me, then,” commands Oliver, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, and Elio does, choking on his own name as his creamy seed overflows in copious spurts, painting Oliver’s knuckles and the aquamarine of the shower wall with salty white. It is the sight of Elio’s come, the contractions of his body, the sound of that name on his pretty lips that shoves Oliver into abrupt ecstasy, and he closes his mouth around the juxtaposition of Elio’s throat and shoulder to muffle his own little grunt of release. It is thus that they converge, Elio surfing Oliver’s orgasm as he fills him up with his essence, shaking together, all shuddering breath and half-mast eyes.**

**Afterward, as they soap each other up and scrub each other down, Oliver says, “I think I’ll start calling you Elli-belli.”**

**Elio snorts, shakes his head as he falls forward to faceplant in Oliver’s chest hair. “I prefer your nickname for me instead.”**

**Oliver smiles, clutches him. His heart feels a hundred times its normal size.**

**“As I prefer yours for me.”**

**They stay like that for a long, long time. When eventually they emerge from the sauna they have created within the bathroom they go to sit on Oliver’s balcony and hunt for constellations, Elio’s tousled crowfeather head leaning on the broadness of Oliver’s bare sun-russet shoulder. There is nothing, nothing but the sky and the shy rustle of trees and the convergence of their heartbeats and here in the indigo night they can pretend with all their significant might that Oliver will never have to leave. They can pretend that it will be like this always.**

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, gratification - nothing like it, eh?


End file.
